


Perseverance

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Fingering, Hysterical Literature, Kink Meme, M/M, Nameless Sole Survivor - Freeform, Oral Sex, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A poetry anthology, a tape recorder, a mission from Preston, and two rules:<br/>1: no touching, and<br/>2: the session ends when he comes. </p>
<p>Bring on the book club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perseverance

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who isn't familiar with the [Hysterical Literature video series (NSFW LINK)](http://hystericalliterature.com/stoya/), it involves someone being filmed from the torso up reading a passage of favourite literature while a vibrator is being used on them. It's sweet, it's sexy, it ends in smiles and laughter, it's just great. 
> 
> The kink meme prompt this fills requested some kind of Fallout 4 update of that video series (with bonus points if the literature fitted into the American Romanticism movement). I did change the video camera to a tape recorder to make it fit a bit better. This story occurs in the same universe as my previous fic, Freedom Trail, though a little later on- and you absolutely don't need to have read that first!

“Remind me again why I’m doing this?” He tests the chair for stability, for creaking; it doesn’t even wobble, which must make it the most solid chair in Sanctuary. Deacon might have gone as far as to steal it from the Vault. It seems like the kind of ridiculous thing he’d do.

The man himself is twiddling with a tape recorder on the desk, coaxing life from long-unused metal.

“Whole bunch of reasons,” he says cheerfully. “How do you want them listed? Alphabetical? Order of importance to the Commonwealth? Order of importance to me- which, let’s face it, is what really counts here? Also, Preston asked you to.”

“Preston asked me to record some literature for Radio Freedom. That’s _all_ he asked.”

“Preston’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong. Got some good ideas. But he’s missing that magical spark of genius that takes a good idea and makes it _amazing_. Reading to the troops is one thing. Reading to the troops-”

“While you suck me off and I pretend nothing’s happening?” He can already tell it’ll be a disaster. The chair is too cold, and he feels like an idiot sitting there, naked from the waist down. There’s a desk in front of him and a window behind that, looking out over Sanctuary. He promised Preston a book club. A chapter or poem or two on tape to be played over radio, something to inspire people. And it’s not as if he disagrees with the project. Not many Commonwealth dwellers are literate these days; they’re at risk of losing some of the stories that shaped the country. It’s a _great_ project.

Deacon, of course, had to go and improve on it.

“While we make _art_ , my friend,” Deacon tells him. “Or, if art’s not your thing, we could call it a training exercise.”

“I like art-”

“Thank god. And here I was starting to think I’d shacked up with an uncultured heathen.”

“Okay, but,” and he squeezes his legs together under the desk, trying to ignore the sense of exposure and the cold air on his thighs. “Explain to me again how being ‘cultured’ equals reading Walt Whitman without any pants?”

Deacon actually pauses to consider it. “Probably something to do with the Illuminati,” he says after a moment. “It usually is.”

“If you feel like I’ve been neglecting the Railroad recently, you can just say. You don’t have to come up with a convoluted and…kind of weird way of sabotaging Minutemen work.”

“You say ‘weird’,” Deacon says, slotting the blank tape into place. “I say, ‘soon to become part of my very private collection of classy post-apocalyptic erotica.’ Remind me to show you my stash sometime. It’s so highly classified I have to keep rotating the location I’m hiding it in, for the sake of preserving government secrets. Pretty sure it’s in a locker at the old Boston Airport right now. Don’t tell Danse.”

“No promises.” He sighs, and Deacon closes the tape recorder up with a _snap_. “So…how does this work? I just keep reading? Is that it? Guess I can probably manage that.”

“You’re gonna be _fine_ ,” Deacon says, moving to stand behind him. Squeezing his shoulders gently. “Just think of all those spiritual awakenings you’ll cause, reading this stuff no one’s heard in centuries! You’re practically Jesus. Only with better fashion sense and less tendency to go around awkwardly touching lepers.”

“I bet Jesus got to wear pants.”

“I don’t know, last time I saw him, he swore he always went commando.” Deacon presses hard against his shoulders. “You’re putting way too much thought into this, babe. Tell me about your book. What classic poem is our favourite human icicle reading for us today?”

He open the book, flipping to the dog-eared page. “No idea.”

“Huh.”

“No, I mean, Preston gave me a list of authors I could choose from. Real _essence of America_ people.”

“And you’re not much of a reader,” Deacon concludes, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve read the classics,” he says defensively. “And I love having _you_ read to me. I just never really paid much attention in school when we covered this kind of stuff. I ended up asking Hancock.”

“Oh boy.” Deacon ruffles his hair one last time before releasing him. “I can already tell this is going to get interesting. Did you even _check_ what our good friend the Mayor suggested, or are we going for the full pornographic experience? That Whitman knew his stuff.”

“Guess we’ll see.” He smoothes down the page, trying to focus on the small print in front of him. It’s a nice day outside. Sunshine, light breeze, good weather for building. Or training. Or anything that isn’t sitting at his desk with a book and Preston’s tape recorder and Deacon coming to kneel between his thighs.

“Ready?” Deacon asks, and he shrugs.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Awesome. Okay, before we start, I got a couple of rules I need you to follow.” Deacon settles down onto his haunches; he’s grinning behind the sunglasses. “One: no touchy. The book is fine, so is the desk, but your hands don’t come anywhere near me.”

“Sure. Fine. Can we just get this over with?”

“Numero dos: when you come, you get to stop. So it’s not even like I’m taking up _that_ much of your time, let’s be honest. You’re not going to last longer than the third verse.”

And that…that’s just uncalled for. “Hey, I don’t fail a mission once I’ve accepted it. Preston wanted literature, I’m giving him the whole goddamn poem. All…” and he flips pages, his heart sinking. “Eleven verses. I’m holding out to the end.”

Deacon’s grin widens. “I was so hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs. “Far be it from me to argue with the boss. And it’s not like I’ll be right here doing my absolute best to ruin Preston’s pet project.”

“I’m _starting_ ,” he says firmly, and reaches for the tape recorder. Clicks it on; the tape whirrs. He clears his throat. “Good afternoon, Commonwealth, this is, uh, the General of the Minutemen, and today I’ll be reading a poem by Walt Whitman, titled…’To Think of Time’.” He wonders if he should admit to never having read the poem. If he should add a disclaimer: all the blame goes to Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor. If he should-

Deacon presses a kiss to the inside of his knee, and he takes a deep breath.

“To think of time- of all that retrospection! To think of today, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?”

_Oh my god, I’m going to murder Hancock,_ he thinks. _He fucking picked a death poem. I bet he thinks he’s so goddamn funny. ‘Let’s make the smoothskin read a poem about death, and it’s funny because ghouls are immortal! That’ll inspire the troops!’ Should have checked. I should have-_ and he blinks, twitching, as Deacon’s breath ghosts up the length of his cock. He’s half-hard already, and has been for a few minutes, but it wasn’t exactly something he could control. These things just happen.

Now he’s having to contend with a man between his thighs; a man with a terrible sense of humour, who suggested the idea in the first place, and begged for days to make it happen.

He drags his attention back to the book, as Deacon slowly licks across the tip of his cock.

“Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing.”

Deacon’s mouth engulfs the sensitive tip of his cock, sucking gently, tongue lapping against him. Hands stroking his thighs as he does, holding him still.

“To think that the sun rose in the east,” he reads on, pausing to swallow. “That men and women were- were flexible, real, alive! That everything was alive! To think that you and I did not, uh, see, feel, think, nor bear our part! To think that we are not- _now_ , we are _now_ here, and bear our part!” He sucks in a breath and allows himself a thread of triumph. First verse done, ten to go.

Deacon has a hand on his cock, jerking him off with measured strokes. His mouth dips a little further every time, before he withdraws. He’s probably smirking. Probably having the time of his life, the smug bastard.

Second verse.

“Not a day passes-not a minute or second, without an…an accouchement. Not a day passes-not a minute or second, without a, uh, corpse.”

Deacon pulls back for long enough to whisper, “that’s so inspirational,” against his leg. The sudden absence of contact is almost as bad; he’s left cold, wondering what angle Deacon will launch his next attack from.

“The dull nights go over,” he says, thigh muscles tensing. “And the dull days also. The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over. The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible- _oh-_ ” And Deacon picks that moment to take him in, swallowing him down deep; the tip of his cock brushes the back of Deacon’s throat, and he jerks. “Gives the silent and terrible look for an answer. The…the children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for.” He shudders, helpless in the slick, tight heat, groaning as Deacon’s hand creeps lower to play with his balls.

_Half way through verse two,_ he thinks, _I can get through this. Should have picked something I actually like. Fucking Preston, and his good intentions. Fucking Hancock, and his sense of humour._

The tape is rolling, humming in the silence. He glares at it, and reads on. “Medicines stand unused on the shelf,” he says doggedly. “The camphor smell has long pervaded the rooms. The faithful hand of the living does not desert the dying- no, the _hand of the dying_.”

His hands twitch on the book. Instinct has him wanting to shove the chair back, grab fistfuls of Deacon’s hair and ride the storm out. The words on the page are losing their meaning. Sheer determination is the only thing that keeps him still as Deacon’s tongue teases up the vein on the underside of his cock. He feels sweat start to prickle on his forehead.

“The…the twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,” he forces out. “The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases, The, um, the corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it. _Uh_. It is…it is…palpable as the living are palpable.” He keeps one hand on the book; the other is flat on the desk, and his nails bite into wood as he reads. “The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight. But. But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and…looks curiously… _god_ , looks curiously on the corpse.”

“Atta boy,” Deacon whispers under the desk. His hands take over from his mouth, slow, maddening strokes that smear saliva all over his aching cock. “Second verse is a killer. Wait until you get to the fourth- if you can. My money’s on ‘probably not’.”

_Two down. Nine to go._ He clenches his fist on the desk, until his fingers protest at the strain, give him pain to shift his focus to.

“To think,” he begins, gasping as Deacon’s mouth finds his inner thigh and sucks a kiss into the sensitive skin there. “To think. Uh. To think the thought of Death, merged in the thought of materials! To think that the rivers will…flow, and…the snow fall, and….fruits ripen, and act upon others as upon us now- _oh._ And. No, _yet_. Yet not act upon us! To think of all these wonders of city and country-” he leans his elbow on the desk, resting his forehead in his hand. Trying to make the words mean something. Deacon is nudging his thighs further apart and sucking kisses up his leg. “And others taking great interest in them- and we taking no interest in them.”

He has to stop, to breathe in deep for a moment or two. “To think how eager we are in building our houses,” he says. His voice is shaking. He can’t seem to make it stop. “To think others shall be…just as eager, and we quite in- uh- independent.”

Deacon’s mouth is back on his cock, teasing with his tongue. Steady fingers slide behind his balls. They press against his entrance, and he gives a panicked groan.

_No, no, no, I’m only half way through the third goddamn verse_ , he thinks, shuffling further down on the chair to give Deacon better access. _That’s cheating._ Deacon’s fingers are slick with something too cold to be saliva, which suggests he came prepared to win by any means necessary. Of course he did.

“I see one building the house that, that serves him a few years, or…seventy, or eighty years at, at most. I see one building the house that serves him longer- _oh, uh,_ longer…than that.” He slams a hand down on the book, shuddering as Deacon breaches him with two fingers, rotating them slightly for better access. There’s sweat on his forehead, beading on his chest, and Deacon’s fingers thrust into him deliciously slow, coaxing his muscles to loosen up.

“Finish the verse,” Deacon whispers. “Prove me wrong, baby, show me you got this.”

A laugh bubbles up in his throat, because he definitely doesn’t have this. “Slow-moving and b-black lines…creep over the whole earth, they…they never. Cease. They are burial lines. _Christ_. He that was President was buried, and he that is- that is now President shall surely be buried, _oh fuck, okay, third verse._ ” He hunches over the desk, the muscles in his abdomen clenching tight as Deacon’s fingers curve inside him.

His eyes feel damp. He swipes at one with the back of his hand, and is stunned to find tears. Must be the pressure he’s under. Preston’s tape recorder, and trying to finish the mission he’d agreed to, and Deacon’s mouth is swallowing him, driving all coherent thought from his mind.

“Please,” he whispers. Doesn’t know what he’s begging for. His cock slides free of Deacon’s mouth, and he groans in protest.

Deacon chuckles. “Well, that sure showed me,” he says in a low voice. He crooks his fingers again, a playful gesture. “Tell you what. Get all the way through the fourth verse, and I’ll make Dez leave you alone for a month or so. One month, no Railroad missions. Promise.”

He’s probably lying. Not that it matters; the challenge is there. They both love challenges.

The page crumples slightly in his hand, and his palms are damp with sweat. He shudders with every minute movement of Deacon’s fingers, every touch sending electric bursts of light up his insides.

“A reminiscence of the vulgar fate,” he begins, stunned that he can manage it at all. “A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen, god _dammit_ Deacon _,_ each- each after his kind.” He stops again, shaking too badly to focus. Deacon takes the opportunity to stretch him further with a third cold finger. And it’s all he can think about, it’s taking over his mind- the press of Deacon’s fingers, where they first tease his prostate and then pull back, scissoring him open. He can’t tell if he’s being pleasured or prepared for something larger. He wonders if Deacon plans to bend him over the desk and make him keep reading.

He wouldn’t do it for anyone else. He’d do it for Deacon. His insides clench up at the very thought.

“Can’t believe you’re getting off on a poem about death,” Deacon whispers. “That’s messed up, man. Am I gonna have to start reading you eulogies in the bedroom? I don’t mind that, but I draw the line at fucking in graveyards. That might just be the _death_ of me.”

“Deacon-”

“What? Tomb much for you? Just trying to urn my keep around here, don’t mind me.”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but once he starts, he can’t make it stop. His hands are shaking almost too much to grip the page; he clenches tight around Deacon’s fingers, and hears Deacon draw in a startled breath. A moment later, Deacon’s mouth is back on his cock, sucking in earnest.

Fourth verse.

“Cold dash of waves at the f-ferry-wharf,” he reads, and his voice shakes with laughter. He presses down hard on Deacon’s fingers. Moans, but he’s grinning as he does. “Posh a-and ice in the river, _uh_ , half-frozen mud in the…streets, a gray… a gray, dis…discouraged sky overhead, _Deacon,- oh god,_ the short, last daylight, fuck, l-last d-daylight of…Twelfth…Twelfth-month- _oh. Ohh god, I’m-oh fuck,_ ” and he shoves the book aside, hunched in on himself and almost howling; orgasm leaves him wrecked, quivering, and Deacon swallows hard around his cock.

He’s still laughing, higher in pitch than he normally would. Feels Deacon press a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock.

The tape is still recording. He wipes tears from his eyes and throws it a guilty grin. “Hey,” he says shakily. “I’m the General of the Minutemen, uh-“ Deacon’s fingers twitch inside him, stinging on sensitive nerves, and he can’t help the laugh it tears from him. “And- and that was Whitman’s ‘To Think of Time’.”

He reaches over and switches off the tape. Buries his head in his hands; shakes and shakes with laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear it took longer to come up with a title than it did to write the damn fic, and you came _this_ close to getting a story titled "Awkwardly Touching Lepers". I wish I was kidding.  
>  (Comments and/or kudos always make my day, and I'm already working on a couple more stories for this pairing, though neither of them is a sequel, sorry! Thanks for reading.)


End file.
